In a city built on power dressing, D.C. Fashion Week had a different agenda: wielding fashion as armor, obstruction, and refusal.
33 The Paper Doll Theory
This photo essay isn’t about clothes. It’s about what they mean.
A Pretense on Pretension
Why I want to make it in the fashion world and how hard it feels to get there.
So Long, Macy’s Center City
Despite its main store closing, the Wanamaker Building’s legacy endures.
42 Crisis to Coalition: How College Students and Professors are Fighting to Secure Reproductive Care
10
14 The Ubiquity of Yoshitomo Nara
You might not know his name, but you know his art.
Bring Out the Pitchforks: Is Music Criticism Dead?
THE STYLE GUIDE
Fletcher Street Urban Riding Club is carrying on the legacy of Philadelphian horse riders in cowboy hats and streetwear.
The era of hating professionally seems to be coming to an end—but this process can be stopped. 23
ON THE COVER
Under the social armor, we're all cut from the same paper.
Design by Jackson Ford
Photos by Jackson Ford and Caleb Crain
Notes from an unfashionable Editor–in–Chief
I dress like a cartoon character. Bright colors, oversized sweaters, and the tendency to wear the same thing over and over again. With my bright yellow puffer, it’s easy to spot me in the midst of the 10:15 a.m. rush.
But despite how sloppily I might dress, I definitely spend way too much time thinking about what I wear. After all, with fashion, you literally wear your heart on your sleeve. The way you dress provides an opportunity for people to make all sorts of assumptions—your sexuality, your class, your interests. But style is also an avenue to assert and construct your own identity. What you wear is both who you are and who you want to be.
Style is a social medium. From Philadelphia Eagles jerseys and sorority formal sweatshirts to designer purses and the infa mous Canada Goose puffer, the clothes you wear are a means of signifying your alle giances. In a sense, fashion serves as a heu ristic, a means of making quick decisions without much context. At a crowded party, clothing allows us to decide who to talk to— and what to talk about. Band tees give you an in to share your Spotify. A Patagonia quarter zip means that stocks are a safe conversation starter. And if you spot a man with a messenger bag and trench coat, avoid mentioning Foucault at any cost.
Often, I find myself wondering how people perceive my fashion taste— what assumptions they make and conversations they default to. My aesthetics change from week to week, mirroring my incoherent sense of self. I have my classic prepubescent boy fits complete with utility pants three sizes too big for me. But I also began to develop a skirt collection in an attempt to reevaluate my re lationship with gender and femininity. There are days I shuffle around campus in a ratty Penngineering T–shirt and sweatpants—ex haustion apparent not only on my face but on my wardrobe as well. Some of my best outfits
were borrowed from friends with far better taste than me because I tend to refrain from buying new clothes—well aware that my tastes have the tendency to shift with the winds. My inchoate fashion sense, in other words, is inextricably tied to my inchoate sense of self. The hope is that once I know who I am—I’ll know how to dress as well.
When I came out at 15, my mom took one look at me and admitted that I had been living in a glass closet—“I figured, Norah, you never liked wearing dresses.” Perhaps even without intention, the style has the ability to speak for us when words are far and few between.
In this issue, Street explores the intricacies of style on campus as it concurrently constrains and extends our sense of sense. Style is more than just what you wear. It’s the way you represent yourself. It’s an art of identity.
Caitlyn Iaccino, Kate Hiewon Ahn, Priyanka Agarwal, Erin Li, Jack Lamey
Music Beats
Jett Bolker, Maren Cohen, Will Cai, Amber Urena, Danielle Jason, Jo Kelly, Kyle Grgecic Arts Beats
Richard Paget, Lynn Yi, Logan Yuhas, Katrina Itona, Maya Grunschlag, Alex Gomez
Film & TV Beats
Aden Berger, Sophia Leong, Bea Hammam Ego Beats
Talia Shapiro, Christine Oh, Eva Lititskaia
Staff Writers
Isaac Pollock, Vivian Yao, Katie Bartlett, Derek Wong, Luiza Louback, Maddy Brunson, Andrew Lu, Kyunghwan Lim, Insia Haque, Gia Gupta, Eleanor Grauke, Catherine Sorrentino
LAND ACKNOWLEDGEMENT
The land on which the office of The Daily Pennsylvanian stands is a part of the homeland and territory of the Lenni-Lenape people. We affirm Indigenous sovereignty and will work to hold the DP and the University of Pennsylvania more accountable to the needs of Indigenous people.
CONTACTING 34 th STREET MAGAZINE
If you have questions, comments, complaints or letters to the editor, email Norah Rami, Editor–in–Chief, at rami@34st.com You can also call us at (215) 422–4640.
Why I want to make it in the fashion world and how hard it feels to get there.
BY LOGAN YUHAS
Photo by Courtney Ross
Ithought I was going to see Natural Wonder Beauty Concept. During my first week alone in London, I figured the subdued soundscapes of Ana Roxanne and DJ Python would calm my nerves, surrounded by other artsy folks in their Institute of Contemporary Arts. However, due to my inexperience with the building and some very stern bouncers, I ended up at something even more pretentious: a perfume launch. They were digging their hands into ice–cream cakes the size of my torso, they were in baroque corsets and custom suits, there was a girl in lingerie reading Anaïs Nin. Despite wearing just a flannel and some jeans—being by myself, by accident in this fantastical and unreal space—I felt right at home. I felt like I was supposed to be there, among people older than me, but peers I aspire to be. I kept that feeling when dancing with Central Saint Martins’ graduate students at Howl Pride or chatting up the manager at Machine–A. That indescribable settling down of, “Ah, these are my people.”
Being with these people confirmed
something in me. I’ve always wanted to have impeccable taste as a way of proving my self–worth. While I might not feel so confident in myself, I can point to my acquired knowledge and accumulated palate as a way of feeling “better than thou.” I sympathize with the emotion in that noise rock album or I see the beauty in that photo of an asshole. The harder to understand, the more removed from the common, the more seemingly pointless, the better. It’s not a farce to me: I do feel a kinship and affinity toward the obscure and marginal, the avant–garde and absolute kitsch that fuels your least favorite roommate in Bushwick. And, as my brief foray in London helped uncover just a bit more, I find community in the most ridiculous sphere: fashion.
I’ve wanted to work in fashion for some time now, but I’ve never been quite sure where to start. Trying to design with only one sewing lesson from my grandma doesn’t feel quite right, nor does strict business analytics. Yet, I can’t help but find myself growing my mental encyclopedia of the best of SS25 in my free time. Can’t avoid learning every shuffle in the creative director deck. Can’t help but want to be able to identify everyone’s outfits.
Penn just doesn’t feel like the most welcoming place to pursue the field. Making the difficult choice to apply to a traditional liberal arts school (maybe to please my parents or to make use of how much I sacrificed for my academics in high school) prevented me from developing a portfolio senior year and climbing the ranks at Parsons or Pratt. I’ve found a bit of a home in the history of art major, but it would certainly make more sense to make the painful transfer into marketing at Wharton, or at the least, economics in the College. I haven’t even allocated space in my schedule for the consumer psychology minor, which every future marketer seems to have at this school. Clubs don’t help either. The WALK is more a passion project than a career–launcher. The Wharton Retail Club feeds into buying or selling internships,
jobs that would feel the same if the good traded was grapes just as much as crepe gowns. Having recently quit the Penn Fashion Collective, I felt like I would’ve had to sacrifice my academic and social life to produce more than a cobbled–to -
I’ve always wanted to have impeccable taste as a way of proving my self–worth. While I might not feel so confident in myself, I can point to my acquired knowledge and accumulated palate as a way of feeling “better than thou.”
gether look. There’s no clear path the way there is for investment banking or engineering: It’s really up to the work I do myself and the connections I make in the meantime.
Connecting on campus the way I was able to in London can feel like a challenge. I can’t just wander into spaces like I did there or meet aspiring designers at a frat afters. What is “cool” feels more guarded by what organizations you’re a part of as opposed to your actual passion or interests. Physical spaces are safeguarded by a convoluted and luck–based who–you–know complex, and who is really willing to connect over a joint struggle like fashion if you’re not providing more than companionship and camaraderie? It means you might have to face where your education and your peers around you are failing you instead of stuffing it
behind “Penn Face” and pretending everything is fine. Maybe it’s my own insecurities—and I know just how much that can limit me—but sometimes, it feels like this campus is hostile to someone who really wants to do the hard work of having taste and go to the 20–person house shows and befriend local musicians, instead of just aligning themselves with campus leaders who can give them the social currency of a veneer of cool. It’s something to put on your Instagram story, yet maybe not something helping you grow or understand the world.
That is why I want to be in fashion and be a pretentious asshole more than anything in the world. In order to get there, one must suffer. By truly understanding the world in the hardships of being creative, developing skills, and connecting with others, you develop a true nonchalance putting your soul out there in the form of art. Not pretending you don’t care for the sake of feeling better about yourself—which I have certainly fallen victim to—but caring so much that criticism rolls off your back. Having unwavering faith in what you’re doing, even if it’s just worrying over flat–felled versus French seams or whether oxblood might be better than merlot. Taking pride in manifesting a physical deposit of what you think in the world, or at the very least, helping those who do, because you know that revealing the truth that only a visual can communicate might help someone else better understand the world, and maybe even change it.
That is the lodestar of my life. I don’t know how I’m going to get there yet, but I know how I want my life to be characterized and the type of people to I want to share it with: those who care and are willing to experience turbulence and pain in order to get it. When Cherry Cheng, owner of Jouissance Parfums, told me she knew me from somewhere as I was leaving her launch, I didn’t know whether that was a polite lie or a real confusion after hours of socializing, but it felt right. You might not have known me yet, Cheng, but you will now. k
Hometown
Buffalo, N.Y.
Major
Urban
studies
and political science
Activities
Community Legal Services Housing Unit intern, Perry World House fellow, Penn Institute for Urban Research ambassador, Penn Abroad ambassador, Penn Mock Trial, Marks Family Writing Center
Leo Biehl (C ‘25) meets us at the corner. The entrance to his house is a bit hidden, he explains, and it’s always easier to just show people the way. He’s wearing a blue button–up and dark denim jeans, well styled in their similarity while avoiding a Canadian tuxedo. Inside, the ceilings are high, and the floors are akin to a basketball court. It used to be an old gymnasium but has since been converted into a three–bedroom unit. He offers a drink before sitting down at the wooden kitchen table. Leo is just as comfortable here at home as he would be at Clark Park’s Saturday morning farmers market, at a coffee shop in Vietnam, or serving orange chicken in Santa Cruz, Calif.
Housing is the name of Leo Biehl’s game. Right here in Philly, he’s been working with Community Legal Services, offering aid to tenants and exploring the city’s not–so–glamorous housing history. And though he has spent a non–insignificant amount of time abroad, he brings that experience back home, keeping his heart close to the City of Brotherly Love.
Where did your interest in housing policy begin?
My interest in housing started during the pandemic. I took a gap year before coming to Penn to work on the New York State Department of Health’s initiative to address COVID–19. I was responsible for calling people in quarantine and helping them access food,
EOTM
Leo Biehl
Housing is the name of this senior’s game.
BY JULES LINGENFELTER
Photos by Jackson Ford and Kelsey Freeman this interview has been edited and condensed for clarity
resources, and housing. I spent hours on the phone talking to people who were homeless, struggling to afford their housing, and facing a time of immense instability.
When I came to Philadelphia, I began studying housing policy. As a sophomore, I joined History professor Brent Cebul’s research team to work on a digital mapping project to study redlining in post–World War II rental properties. My job was to go through historical newspaper archives and determine where these properties were located. We found that the vast majority of affordable rental units insured by the Federal Housing Administration were built outside of minority communities, which essentially boxed African Americans out of accessing low–cost housing and contributed to some of the unequal outcomes we see today. When I was doing the project, I just loved reading about the histories of the buildings and the people in them. I was reading about love triangles, botched bank heists, and attempted murders that occurred at the properties. Then, I’d be reading about some of the revolutionary housing campaigns that took place
there, or about the highways that came in the 1960s and completely bulldozed them, often without any sort of resident approval. It’s that intersection of urban geography and that storytelling that really speaks to me.
Can you talk more about what you’ve been working on here in Philly?
Over the past couple years, I’ve been working on an independent research project that explores the history of how urban renewal in the 1960s impacted one building called Boslover Hall. It was located on 701 Pine St., and it acted as the headquarters for one of the city’s prominent Jewish organizations. It was also a second home for the city’s Black and Hispanic communities who used that building to host dances and cultural celebrations at a time when a lot of other buildings wouldn’t let them do anything. By visiting the archives at Temple University and reading through court documents, my project uncovered how Ed Bacon—who was Philadelphia’s chief city planner—was able to push out this organization and the diverse, multicultural community
to make way for what is now modern, upscale Society Hill. That's when I really became interested in how the legal system can perpetuate or even address some of these issues of urban inequality.
Now, this semester, at Community Legal Services, I’m working as an intern in the housing unit to help tenants navigate their eviction cases. Much of my senior spring has been spent on the sixth floor of Philadelphia Municipal Court observing landlord/tenant hearings. I help tenants navigate repair issues, prepare evidence for their trials, and give advice on their housing situations. It’s been fascinating to learn about some of Philadelphia’s unique policy approaches to addressing housing inequality, like the Eviction Diversion Program, which is nationally acclaimed and requires mediation between tenants and landlords before any eviction filings. That’s led to a drop in evictions. Still, I would say it’s been frustrating to watch how our legal system often fails to protect the city’s residents—and how easy it is for tenants to slip into unstable housing situations, or even homelessness.
What would you say is your guiding philosophy for housing policy?
It’s really this idea of making sure that everyone has a home. I saw some of the gaps that we have in our society—people who are in homeless shelters, people who are concerned about losing their housing. Being in a big city like Philadelphia helped me realize that we need to do a lot to address the issue of homelessness and affordable housing. When I’m doing these research projects, when I’m exploring urban renewal in Philadelphia in the 1960s or traveling abroad to do research on housing, it’s centered on how we can take lessons from these other places to help this urgent problem that we have in the United States.
And in life?
My favorite football team is the Buffalo Bills. And there’s this quote that the famous Marv Levy said, which is chanted before every Bills game: “Where would you rather be, than right here, right now?” For me, wherever I’ve been, in any community, I’ve tried to really make sure that I’m living in that community. When I was abroad, I didn’t want to travel so much. I wanted to stay in Berlin as much as possible and meet German friends and experience the culture. I know Philadelphia gets a lot of criticism, but it’s my favorite city in the United States. I love walking through the Italian Market. I love going to get little samples of cheese at Di Bruno Bros. I love going to all of the art gallery openings and the jazz shows, and just being in a city that's so vibrant, so walkable. And I think that appreciating the communities I’m in instead of always looking to where’s next is one of my guiding philosophies.
You’ve spent some time abroad as well—how has that time guided your work back home?
Junior spring and summer, I was abroad in Berlin studying some of the city’s attempts to address housing policy. I am actually originally from Berlin. That's where I was born, and I wanted to go back, mainly to learn the language and to reconnect with my family, but also to study housing. After that, I went to Belgium to conduct research for my senior thesis in urban studies. My thesis focused on Community Land Trust Brussels and how this community has united to construct an affordable housing model
in the city and also establish a tight–knit and successful approach to community organizing. The community land trust model is something that U.S. cities, including Philadelphia, New York, and San Francisco, have tried to adopt, and by looking to models like CLTB, our cities can learn some successful approaches to organizing.
I think that going to Vietnam, where I worked at a sustainable architecture firm through Penn’s Global Research and Internship Program, helped me learn how we need to construct housing at scale and how we need to build sustainably so that we can also tackle issues like climate change when confronting the housing crisis.
Have you spent every summer abroad?
My first summer, I went back to Santa Cruz because my family moved there, and I worked at an amusement park. I was basically the guy who worked directly under the biggest wooden roller coaster, and I worked at an Asian food restaurant. It was called the Board Wok on the Santa Cruz Beach Boardwalk. I was preparing the orange chicken in the back, and about every minute and a half, I would say, the entire stand would shake because the roller coaster would go overhead. Honestly, it did teach me a few cus-
tomer service skills that I’ve used now when I talk to people for my housing work.
What’s one thing about you that you think would surprise other people?
I really like playing pingpong. It’s a passion that I developed when I was young with my dad. We would play after dinner every night. And then when I went to Germany, it became a real way to socialize with other Germans and to meet people. A common thing to do is to just go into a park and to play pingpong. I would do that, and I got good at pingpong, but I also really did improve my language.
Where are you headed next?
I am hoping to continue studying housing policy. I’m applying for a couple of grants that would send me to Vienna to do housing research there, because they have a progressive social housing system that has been used recently to help address homelessness. I think Vienna’s approach could offer lessons for U.S. cities. Down the line, I’m hoping to go to law school. I’m hoping to enter a career in public service where I’m helping with housing issues and working to make sure that as many people as possible get housed. k
Who is your celebrity lookalike: Dominic
according to friends
There are two types of people at Penn… Those who make the weekend trip to Clark Park to get a $1.50 apple cider donut and those who don’t
And you are?
Very much a consumer of apple cider donuts
Favorite coffee shop in the city: Chapterhouse Cafe & Gallery
Favorite coffee shop abroad: The coffee shop on the ground floor of my office in Vietnam
Favorite thing you’ve read lately: The Power Broker by Robert Caro
Sessa,
The Ubiquity of Yoshitomo Nara
You might not know his name, but you know his art.
BY KATRINA ITONA
Graphic by Katrina Itona
Ithe pantheon of social media iconography, one big–headed girl stands out: the work of Yoshitomo Nara. Perhaps you don’t recognize his name, but Nara’s work of indifferent cherubic girls, simply drawn dogs, and emphatic text has stamped itself on our teenage and young–adult hearts. He’s everywhere—our profile pictures, our clothes, as designs on nails, on our bodies. Nara’s works are images that move us on a daily basis and exhibit the everyday translation of an internet obsession to a symbol for our personalities and lives. What’s most unique and enduring about Generation Z’s love for Nara is not just in visits to galleries and exhibitions: It’s how he influences our style.
My first encounter with Nara was through my repeated exposure to The Museum of Modern Art Design Store’s skateboard triptych, sold in their stores in mid–2023. The wall art piece made up of three skateboard decks to create one image was loved by interior design niche creators and influencer selfies alike. Miss Margaret (a feature painting
reproduced on the triptych) has since become one of Nara’s most recognizable works in recent times. It’s his classic: a stylized portrait of a redheaded little girl with short bangs and a green background. She has a plain expression on her face, and the muted colors of the painting provide a backdrop for her more colorful, sparkling eyes. The quiet subtlety of Miss Margaret is eye–catching whatever the setting. From the beginning, Nara was never an artist bound by the gallery and resonated with viewers off the walls.
Nara’s gauche simplicity—his stroke texture and “superflat” character—is emblematic of many contemporary art movements in Japan, as many generations are fueled by influences of anime and pop culture. He’s currently 65 years old and is now commonly regarded as one of the most famous living Japanese artists since emerging during the 1990s. However, Nara set himself apart from neo–pop artists like Takashi Murakami (think: smiling flowers, Louis Vuitton) by finding his visual motifs from life rather than product or adver-
tisement. In the words of Angelica Villa for ARTNews, Nara captures “a universal sense of angst” through his exploration of childhood, innocence, and rebellion. His work often addresses themes of existentialism, the climate crisis, and his experiences growing up as an outsider of Japanese society. These emotions of disconnect, fear, or insecurity take the form of children and pets who often look up in the paintings with an angry or annoyed face at the larger world around them. When they aren’t staring back at the viewer, the children are making music, smoking, and brandishing knives. “I kind of see the children among other bigger, bad people all around them who are holding bigger knives,” Nara says. Against the threats of adulthood, the vulnerability of childhood and nostalgia are our weapons. Since Nara’s mainstream advent, his work pervades the young consciousness and expands what the visual arts mean to our generation. In an algorithm concocted with elements of anime and manga, Hallyu, kawaii culture, and anything and everything in
between, images of Nara’s work are unavoidable. Miss Margaret and others are not only found on the skateboard triptych in official merchandise—Nara’s work is the subject of countless Instagram posts and Pinterest disseminations, but just as much as the person who posts it is, too. On my social media feed, his 2021–22 exhibition at the Los Angeles County Museum of Art is more reminiscent of a concert than a normal museum exhibition. It was customary to pose moodily in front of the work, wear your Sunday best, and recreate other signage of your day at the museum. In the same vein of other modern social media phenomena, one’s presence at the exhibition (and all of Nara’s exhibitions since then) was then visually shared in cyclical representations. These images (a post, a story, etc.) signal who is truly in the know, whose visit to the art gallery is truly representative of their spirit, despite a similar nature to them all.
In modernity, the fine arts no longer belong behind gated walls in glass cases. The
entirety of the process is significant to our postmodern perspective on art, and the recreation of Nara’s work is like each of our own individual continuation of that process. The process of choosing an outfit has become our own unique form of curation. When a shirt of Nara’s work carries inklings of his original message of reconnection to childhood imagination and innocent fears, it transforms into a part of our personal visage. A set of nails with Nara micropaintings evoke a sense of creativity and accessory beyond just luxury and self–care. A profile picture, Spotify playlist cover, or other pictographic badges of a user’s online visual identity become an opportunity to signal a cultural knowing and personal style to your online community.
Nara’s ideology shies away from the consumerist nature of the art world and the numbers game despite the high auction values of his pieces and popularity with the younger generation. However, this thought and the story behind the work is exactly what resounds with Nara lovers. In a constant
livelihood of production and material consumption, there’s clarity and consolation in imagining oneself as part of an artwork or a community of other art lovers. Looking into the eyes of Miss Margaret, it’s hard for me not to see my own reflection, with my newly cut baby bangs and cherry cola red hair. But I’ve seen myself in Nara’s work from the first time I encountered it, and I know so many others who would say the same thing.
The representation of the representation is almost like the internet’s mother language, and Nara’s iconographic, character–based paintings fit in perfectly. First, it’s a skateboard triptych. Then, it’s T–shirts and notebooks. Soon, it’s a trend to own the collection and attach its semblance to one’s own youthful, moldable identity. In the Western internet canon, he’s a figure with an esoteric, Gen–Z flair, yet his work speaks to the global world. Nara’s work speaks globally, to the fears and anxieties of everyone, everywhere; he’s “egalitarian,” and maybe that’s what we need more of. k
So Long, Macy’s Center City
Despite its main store closing, the Wanamaker Building’s legacy endures.
JACK LAMEY
Saturdays——for the boys, but also the shoppers. Since I first arrived in Philadelphia, one noteworthy activity has continually enriched my weekends: wandering among Center City’s emporium of superstores. A stroll within the city’s vibrant shopping scene never fails to satisfy—even amid a penetrating breeze or unsupervised tweens screaming obscenities
On Feb. 10, I ventured off campus to secure a long–overdue essential for any Philadelphian: Philadelphia Eagles merch. After a bumpy SEPTA ride to Dilworth Park, I instinctually began an all–too–familiar path to Macy’s: a personal sanctuary of both fond childhood and young–adult memories. Following a robust chorus of “E–L–G–S–E–S” chanters, I expected to be greeted by the store’s usual welcoming aura, exquisite product arrays, and tranquil background music. Yet, a dismaying sight awaited me on the corner of 13th and Market streets: A “Closing: Entire Store 30–60% Off” sign hung in the front window. Opposite the glass doors lay an unrecognizable, chaotic merchandise layout. Clothing racks formerly sorted by size now
presented miscellaneous combinations of polka–dotted skirts and oversized sweatshirts. Dusty pigsties of rugs and bedspreads had replaced a glowing display of gilded furniture. Shelves just two months ago flaunting vibrant Levi’s jeans patterns now lay barren. Among ubiquitous discount reminder posters, the store’s once–colorful complexion had subsided entirely.
Economically speaking, this outcome is unsurprising. While retail chains propelled 20th century metropolitan consumer culture, myriad factors have accelerated their decline over the past two decades.
The Great Recession’s shrinkage of middle–class income reoriented the retail sector’s preferences towards discount stores. Furthermore, heightened outperformance from e–commerce conglomerates such as Amazon caused once lucrative vendors such as Gymboree to approach bankruptcy. Finally, COVID–19 sales disruptions tremendously exacerbated deficits of mall–and–outlet–based corporations. With Green Street Advisors estimating 25% of malls to shut down by 2027, the fate of United States department stores remains
foreseeably grim.
In February 2024, Macy’s introduced a “Bold New Chapter” plan to combat productivity losses from the aforementioned factors, and CEO Tony Spring has projected investment in “350 go–forward locations” as a key mechanism for reviving “market share gains … and value creation for our shareholders.” Correspondingly, the enterprise’s newly instituted vision has necessitated the closures of underperforming stores; the Philadelphia branch is among 65 others to be shuttered in 2025. However, for Philly, Macy’s Center City is no ordinary department store. Since 2006, this retailer’s occupancy of the Wanamaker Building has spurred customers into visiting a National Historic Landmark. Preeminent innovator John Wanamaker transformed a forsaken Pennsylvania Railroad station into the grandiose, marble building which stands today; afterwards, the Philly native sought to modernize the typical in–store excursion. His building’s first official retailer introduced a store–restaurant model, electricity system, and bell telephone. As customers walk the
Photo by Jack Lamey
ground floor of Macy’s, Wanamaker’s intellectual prowess lingers: Profound sentiments of this pioneer adorn the store’s marble pedestals.
Adjacent to these pillars stands the Eagle—a bronze statue by German expressionist August Gaul. This sculptor had originally crafted the artifact for presentation at the 1904 World’s Fair, the Louisiana Purchase Exposition; interestingly, Wanamaker’s purchase of the display aided in customers’ navigation of his store. Following the artifact’s installation, shoppers coined the catchphrase “meet me at the Eagle” when arranging rendezvous; this visible landmark constituted a significant reference point in an otherwise massive court. Although digital communication has since replaced the Eagle’s service as a preordained meeting point, the majestic splendor of this statue remains intact.
Just a story above lies one particularly iconic feature: the Wanamaker Organ. Acclaimed as the world’s largest organ, this almost 29,000–pipe instrument’s first vibrations date back to 1911—saluting England’s King George V and Queen Mary’s coronation. Ever since, this wondrous creation has treated the ears of Macy’s visitors to an enchanting, delicate repertoire. Each December, its alluring tones have complemented Philly’s Dickens Village, a sensation of kaleidoscopic lights radiating images of snowmen, reindeer, and other merry holiday symbols. The organ’s pipes have even accompanied the Philadelphia Orchestra’s symphonies. For 30 years, a benefactor association—known as Friends of the Wanamaker Organ, Inc.—has worked annually to preserve this artifact’s delicate sound and hosts tours of its ornate interior.
With the store anticipated to close next month, now is your chance to indulge in a haven of prodigious price markdowns. Yet, if you choose to undergo this spree, take a moment to acknowledge the delicate, remarkable memorabilia surrounding you. While Center City’s Macy’s may have underperformed financially, this establishment’s broader historical and aesthetic legacy shall never cease to exist. k
Bring Out the Pitchforks: Is Music Criticism Dead?
The era of hating professionally seems to be coming to an end—but this process can be stopped.
BY AMBER URENA
Design by Dana Bahng
Can the basement that they run p*tchfork out of just collapse already,” Halsey tweeted after reading the publication’s review of her 2020 album Manic —a review that said her newest work reminded them of “sitting miserably in the backseat of a Lyft.” This tweet was promptly deleted after Halsey found out that Pitchfork operates out of the World Trade Center. Halsey quickly tried to remedy the issue by claiming she was joking and was attempting to “poke at them back with the same aloof passive aggression they poke at artists with.”
Despite its now mainstream status, Pitchfork was first founded as a blog in 1996 in Minneapolis that covered alternative and independent musicians and songs. It started to gain traction in the early 2000s due to its frequent updates and emphasis on emerging artists, and its popularity skyrocketed even further in the 2010s before becoming the Pitchfork we know today: a Condé Nast subsidiary with professional reviews and a focus on more mainstream acts. Although Pitchfork remains one of the most well–known music journalism publications, its website faced a 36% decrease in viewership last year, and it was announced this year that the company would be absorbed by GQ . Pitchfork isn’t the only music publication that has suffered, with other outlets such as Rolling Stone and NME also making efforts to regain their footing within the past five years. With all of these publica -
tions dwindling in relevancy, this trend begs the question: Why are we turning our backs on traditional music journalism? The source of this issue is obvious: the internet.
Social media has made participating in the exchange of ideas and opinions more accessible to ordinary people around the world. This phenomenon has made the barrier to entry to music criticism pretty much nonexistent. You no longer need to have a degree in journalism or work for music publication monoliths to tell people how you feel about certain songs, albums, or artists—all you need is a social media account and an interest in expressing yourself. The ease of making widely accessible comments about music encourages people to put their opinions out there. This, in turn, creates hundreds of thousands of different “reviews” about one album or song that you can find just by typing up an artist’s name on Instagram or X, the platform formerly known as Twitter. Social media comments are also usually short and to the point, in contrast to Pitchfork or Rolling Stone reviews.
But what if I want one single, focused review that is highly analytical? Social media has that too! On YouTube, you can watch thousands of videos of people reacting to and sharing their insights on new music. The voices of professional critics are being drowned out by a sea of social media users who finally have the
power to share their opinions about new works. The sheer volume of amateur reviews has changed who gets to wield cultural power—the everyday consumer or fan is now the loudest voice in the music criticism scene, making the professional critic increasingly less prominent.
This gap between the consumer and the critic continues to intensify on social media. Take, for example, the “let people enjoy things” debate. Many online say that we should stop lambasting things others like simply because we don’t, and instead, leave people to partake in what they want. Unfortunately, professional critics of popular music publications are not being paid to leave people alone. It’s quite the opposite—they’re being paid to look at music with more scrutiny and skepticism than the average person. This encourages consumers to turn on music
critics even further, viewing them only as “haters” who are “dunking on their faves.”
This problem gets bigger when we consider how artists themselves feed into this. Halsey is not the first musician to call out critics for publishing unfavorable reviews. Lizzo claimed, in reference to Pitchfork , that “People who ‘review’ albums and don’t make music themselves should be unemployed” (a position she has since retracted), and Ariana Grande said that the people who worked at “all them blogs” must be “unfulfilled.” When musicians paint a picture of critics as hateful people who are attacking them, their fans will, more often than not, side with the artist and be inclined to believe the same, furthering their disdain toward professional critics.
Music criticism is dying. Its murderer?
The voices of professional critics are being drowned out by a sea of social media users who finally have the power to share their opinions about new works.
The internet and the way it has changed the ways we approach and consume music. In the coming years, Pitchfork will likely not be the only publication to be
bought out and downsized. But these companies will be able to adapt to the changing times, and it would not be shocking to see publications trying to double down on their social media presence. Instead of publishing their reviews on their websites or magazines and promoting them with short quotes on social media, they might try uploading reviews directly onto social media platforms that are shorter in length than what you would find on a website. This allows for professional critics to share their reviews and for consumers and fans to add their own opinions in the comments section. Despite the challenges they face, these outlets certainly won’t go down without a fight. Only time will tell if professional music criticism will be able to coexist with the opinions of the general public, but I remain optimistic. k
THE STYLE GUIDE 2025
X
18
Z INSIDE D.C. FASHION WEEK
In a city built on power dressing, D.C. Fashion Week had a different agenda: wielding fashion as armor, obstruction, and refusal.
22
Q THE CONCRETE COWBOYS
Fletcher Street Urban Riding Club is carrying on the legacy of Philadelphian horse riders in cowboy hats and streetwear.
26
28
X FINDING SPACE FOR YOURSELF AT THE ROOM SHOP
Shelly Horst’s Philadelphia–based small business prioritizes community, sustainability, and a spirit of individuality.
e PHILLY’S BEST SHOPPING SPOTS, ACCORDING TO PEOPLE WITH GOOD TASTE
A love letter to Philly’s shopping scene
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B RACHEL TASHJIAN ON STYLE AND STATECRAFT
Redefining the role of a fashion critic through the sartorial art of politics and couture.
D PAPER DOLL THEORY
This photo essay isn’t about clothes. It’s about what they mean.
36
F THE REAL INFERNO IS IN THE BEAUTY STANDARDS
Single’s Inferno, K–beauty, and the consequences of the pursuit of exclusive beauty
INSIDE D.C. FASHION WEEK Z
In a city built on power dressing, D.C. Fashion Week had a different agenda: wielding fashion as armor, obstruction, and refusal.
BY KATE CHO
by Jackson Ford and Design by Dana Bahng
ashington is known for power suits, not power silhouettes. It’s a city where the most daring fashion choice is not wearing Allbirds to brunch. It is a town of navy blazers, sensible flats, and men who dress like their mothers still buy their Barbour jackets.
Before D.C. Fashion Week, Street’s very own photo editor Jackson Ford and I spent the afternoon rotting on Georgetown’s lawn, counting the number of Adidas Sambas and Barbour jackets absorbing the last of the winter sun. After the show, we took the obligatory postgame Lincoln Memorial walk, standing in front of something oversized and immovable, trying to make sense of what we had just seen. Inside the walls of the National Housing Center, where one might expect a conference on zoning laws, I lost my fashion show virginity.
THE COWBOY BOOT INDUSTRIAL COMPLEX
There is something deeply funny about
Washington, of all places, becoming the site of an Americana reckoning. Andrew Nowell Menswear came out swinging with a streetwear–meets–Savile–Row aesthetic that felt like what would happen if an English tailor took a gap year in Texas and never recovered. There was grungy, lodge–core fur that wasn’t the sleek, Gwyneth Paltrow–approved quiet luxury fur haunting the Upper East Side. No, this fur felt self–sufficient and slightly violent, like it had been acquired via a trap in the woods rather than a Net–A–Porter sale.
Then there was the leather, animal–print blazer, an outfit for the man in your life who is simultaneously a Wall Street executive and an exiled tiger king. This was not Americana as heritage; this was Americana as deconstruction.
This wasn’t the controlled, Pinterest–friendly cowboy revival we’ve seen on Kendall Jenner or the Bode–wearing finance bros of Tribeca. This was Western wear as dissonance, as rupture—a visual argument about American masculinity in freefall. What happens when the rugged cowboy archetype no longer serves a purpose? What happens when the myth of the American West collides with a reality in which the only people wearing cowboy boots are finance guys and Instagram girls at Stagecoach?
Andrew Nowell’s collection seemed less interested in exploring Americana and more in dismantling it altogether
Luxury is in a state of conceptual exhaustion. The quiet luxury movement has drained excess of its meaning, reducing opulence to a whisper. At the same time, the death of
streetwear as the dominant cultural force has left a vacuum in how status is communicated through clothing. If loud logos now feel gauche and quiet luxury has been flattened into nothingness, then what is left? What does it mean to dress with power?
WHEN FASHION IS SOVEREIGN
Chiefo! sent out a model who did not look styled. He looked ordained: A towering figure draped in a sweeping white cape, its massive sleeves engineered to command space. Atop his head was a glittering hat, evoking the silhouette of Yoruba fila caps, geometric in structure yet spiritual in presence. It was not just a design choice; it was a proclamation, a visual language of status that predates European tailoring.
The body was left bare; no shirt, only strength, and muscles exposed not as vulnerability but as proof of survival. Draped over him was a sweeping white cape, engineered not for softness but for force, its billowing sleeves extending outward, demanding space. This was not the kind of cape seen in European royal portraits, designed for stillness and posed regality. This was a garment that does not adapt to the body, but rather, demands the body adapt to it.
Yvonne Exclusive Designs took the same approach, turning clothing into armor. Beaded chest plates sat on the body not like jewelry, but like protection—scaled, layered, and designed to absorb impact. The work recalled the Masai and Zulu warrior breastplates, intricate yet rigid, symbols of strength disguised as ornamentation. Cowrie shells, once a glob-
Photos
al currency before European colonialism dec imated their value, were placed deliberately within netted draping.
It would be easy to frame these collections through the lens of European fashion histo ry—to compare them to the draping of Galliano–era Dior, to find their references within an aesthetic language that remains fundamentally Western. But to do so would be to miss the entire point.
THE CALL IS COMING FROM INSIDE THE CLUTCH
Fashion has spent the last decade negotiating how much it owes the body. Clothing had to flatter, to move, to function, and to present a version of the wearer that was legible to the world. Even in avant–garde fashion, there was always a conversation between fabric and form—whether that was the precision of Thierry Mugler or the movement of Issey Miyake. The body may have been exaggerat ed or distorted, but it was still acknowledged.
Valenncii Ventora’s collection refused to negotiate. It did not shape the body, or even distort it; it consumed it and turned it into something impractical, obstructive, or out right absurd. It was not just uninterested in wearability: It was anti–wearability.
A model walked out in a bodysuit with ballet pointe shoes and a red puffer cape so swollen and oversized that it barely moved as they did. The effect was uncanny, somewhere between a Comme des Garçons archive piece and an ab surdist stage costume. Rei Kawaku
bo’s most radical work often centers on clothing as a burden—fabric that rejects the body, sleeves that cannot be lifted, and structures that engulf the wearer like armor or cocoon. Valenncii Ventora took that idea and pushed it further: The cape did not just sit on the model, it dictated how they existed
The bean bag clutch took that philosophy to its most extreme point. At first, it was simply oversized—a visual gag. But then, it grew, bloated, overtook the body entirely, and swallowed the model into its formless mass. Accessories, by nature, are designed to be held, controlled, and secondary to the body. This was an accessory that became the main character, relegating the human insides to an after-
We’ve seen accessories function as sculpture before—Daniel Roseberry’s surrealist Schiaparelli creations, Jonathan Anderson’s Loewe pieces that turn handbags into Duchampian readymades—but Valenncii Ventora rejected that level of polish. This wasn’t sculptural fashion as a refined concept; it was an imposition.
And then, there was Frida Kahlo’s face, stitched onto denim overalls, layered with a black bolero, a regency–style bonnet, and fingerless gloves. It would be easy to read this as just another instance of fashion pillaging art for aesthetics. After all, Kahlo’s face has been commodified into oblivion— slapped onto tote bags, graphic tees, and coffee mugs by brands that would have horrified her.
Valenncii Ventora did not present Kahlo’s image in a way that felt reverent or even legible. The overalls—a working–class garment, tied to both American labor history and Mexican campesino identity—were clashing against the prim bolero, the absurdly delicate bonnet, and the punkish gloves. This was not a clean, digestible portrait of an icon; it was disjointed, chaotic, and unmoored from any specific narrative.
The Kahlo industrial complex has turned her into a marketable shorthand for feminist resistance, but here, her image felt destabilized, thrown into an aesthetic blender of historical references with no clear through line, which felt deliberate.
Fashion is obsessed with nostalgia right now, resurrecting Rococo, Edwardian, Victorian, and Regency silhouettes at the same time that it mines the ‘90s and Y2K. But it often does so without interrogating the politics of those eras—why those garments existed, what they meant, who they excluded, and how they shaped the idea of fashion itself.
This look seemed to push that tendency to its most absurd endpoint—a historical collage so incoherent that it revealed the emptiness of fashion’s nostalgia addiction.
We are in an era where designers are in creasingly testing how much the body actually matters to the clothes we wear.
Glenn Martens’ work at Diesel has made denim a rigid, sculptural force, often render ing the wearer incidental to the garment’s movement. Balenciaga’s latest silhouettes un der Demna are increasingly hostile to human proportions—hunched, aggressive, and structured for some dystopian future body. Ludovic de Saint Sernin’s barely there de signs and Mowalola’s extreme cutouts are making clothes that barely exist as protec tion, where exposure itself is the point.
Valenncii Ventora’s work fits into this new wave of antagonistic design—cloth ing that is not just impractical, but delib erately difficult.
It is easy to look at these pieces and call them costumes. But costume suggests that clothing must be in service of a role, a function, or an external meaning.
This collection offered no such thing.
THE MILITARY AESTHETIC COMPLEX
Military tailoring has been stripped of its original purpose and rebranded as a luxury staple, from Prada’s love of nylon to Balmain’s sharp–shouldered militaria. The language of war has been absorbed into the fashion system so completely that it no longer carries weight; it exists as a cool silhouette, a nod to toughness that means nothing.
Matveeva’s collection was not about aestheticized resilience. It was about resilience as material reality.
A model walked out in a sharply structured, military–style coat in black, its shoulders squared with precision, and its buttons lined with the exacting symmetry of wartime uniforms. The silhouette was immediately recognizable: This was not a designer borrowing from the visual language of war, but someone
There was no romanticism in these clothes, no styling tricks meant to soften their severity, and no illusions that these were costumes for some imagined apocalypse—because the apocalypse had already arrived.
Other designers have attempted post–conflict aesthetics before—Raf Simons’ early work was filled with survivalist paranoia, Rick Owens has played with militarized dystopia for years, and Demna’s Balenciaga has made the disheveled, crisis–worn silhouette a central theme of his collections. But Matveeva’s approach was not speculative.
And then there was the flag.
Fashion’s use of national flags has always been complicated. Flags and logos in fashion are often acts of irony (Vetements’ DHL collection), of rebellion (punk and Vivienne Westwood’s co–opting of the Union Jack), or of hyper–commercialized patriotism (Ralph Lauren Americana).
But here, there was no irony, no spectacle, and no performance. A Ukrainian flag was presented at the end of the collection, not as an accessory or a branding tool, but as a declara
D.C. Fashion Week didn’t just showcase clothes; it showcased fashion’s ongoing identity crisis.
Some designers treated luxury as armor, inheritance, something untouchable. Others stripped fashion down to a negotiation between fabric and the body—one that didn’t always end in agreement. Wearability wasn’t just ignored; it was actively rejected.
At the end of it all, there were no clear answers. Just the sense that fashion isn’t interested in being easy anymore.
And maybe that’s the point. Z
THE CONCRETE COWB Q YS
Fletcher Street Urban Riding Club is carrying on the legacy of Philadelphian horse riders in cowboy hats and streetwear.
BY SADIE DANIEL
t’s below 20 degrees and my toes are freezing. Grey, the small guard kitty, sits outside the Fletcher Street Urban Riding Club stables of Strawberry Mansion, next to a bag of carrots dropped off that morning for the horses. There’s hay on the ground, horses shuffling in their stalls, and Jake, the club’s new pony–sized puppy, is bolting around the property.
FSURC was opened just over 20 years ago to provide an alternative outdoor activity to instill discipline, teach life skills, and promote academic achievement in city youth. Ellis Ferrell, “aka El–Dog, aka the president” of FSURC, came to Philadelphia in the 1940s as
a teen from Florida looking to finish school and found himself entranced by the horses roaming the city streets. He’d grown up around them in the South, but since “horses weren’t something [they] could eat,” his aunt refused to buy one. Instead, he and his cousins passed their time taming and riding bulls. Still, horses held a special place in his heart.
When his life here in Philly started, horses were still a commonly used work animal by Black laborers in the city. Many such laborers migrated to Philly during the Great Migration and knew their way around horses long before they arrived. The stallions would pull
around carts coming to pick up coal ashes that were used to heat Strawberry Mansion homes in the wintertime. But when cars started to replace the creatures, Black cowboys across the city decided to keep them.
The culture spread from there, with stables popping up across the city. Be it Northeast, North, South, or West, it was hard to find an area without seeing Black men on saddles. Cowboy hats on top and whatever streetwear they wanted below, they created a blend between the Southern aesthetics of their ancestors and the modern look of North Philly, including by donning Philadelphia Eagles jerseys during the recent
Photos by Jackson Ford and Design by Kate Hiewon Ahn
now nobody rides. They’re all working.
ed in horse culture. … They don’t own them; they all rent from somebody else. You see those horses over there? I
Dog tries to buy and help the sickest of horses, guided by a powerful love in his heart for them and any other animal
that comes his way—a sentiment that drove him to found FSURC.
The club has struggled to keep its horses, though. Four years after losing their original stables in Brewerytown to eminent domain—which is when the government takes and repurposes private property for public use—and moving to the now gone Fletcher Street lot, the city shut down their stables, and the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals conducted a massive raid sparked by an anonymous tip, taking away all of FSURC’s animals.
The club got the animals back soon after when the animals were all found to be healthy, but El–Dog says they’ve dealt with the SPCA a lot over the years. Disinterest in owning horses grew from there. “They just got tired of the SPCA,” says El–Dog. Forced removal after forced removal, relocation after relocation—many felt exhausted.
In the era of the automobile, the city has tried to keep horses out of cities. When FSURC riders take their horses around Fairmount Park, where their new and still unfinished stables—15 months after their grand opening with Philadelphia Parks & Recreation—are meant to be, people come up to them asking where they rented them. “We don’t rent them, we own them,” El–Dog remarks.
The club has received a lot of media attention over the years—including from the 2020 film Concrete Cowboy, in which several club members acted— with people across the world seeing a Black man on a horse as a spectacle. But this isn’t some new idea. Despite the long–held, iconic image of the Wild West being a white man in a cowboy hat, around 25% of the original cowboys of the 19th century were Black. Many of them were left to take care of cattle when white Confederate soldiers left for war. Trained in cattle herding by
the time the 13th Amendment was passed, cattle herding became one of the only jobs available to Black men in the South and was a skill they brought with them as they migrated out and across the country. Black cowboys trail ride across the country now and can be found in cities anywhere from Philly to Compton, Calif. rocking cowboy hats and hoodies.
Still, racism isn’t scarce in the horse riding scene. According to El–Dog, things began to change after President Donald Trump’s (W ‘68) election in 2016. “We go to the auctions; it was pretty good but now they changed. Trump got in there, and they changed. We used to talk and stuff at the auctions, but now they don’t even want to talk to you. … Growing up, being around horses, they didn’t used to see color, because horse people are a little bit different. You were a horse person no matter what color you was, but not
now,” he laments.
This change does nothing to stop their mission, though, as Black youth from across North Philadelphia still come to learn and ride. It isn’t limited to them of course, as the club will teach anyone who’s willing to learn for free. Before the kids get to take out horses, they need to clean the stables and take care of any tasks El–Dog or his son Darrin assign to them. Discipline is key to the club. “It keeps them out of trouble,” El–Dog explains. He lists off all sorts of occupations past riders have gone into, from playing for the Oakland Raiders to running soup kitchens for the homeless. The discipline and life lessons taken from the club set youth up for success, particularly because they aren’t allowed to ride if their grades are slipping.
Looking around the stables, further success is clearly in the works.
Kids wander in, picking up shovels to clean stalls, excited to pet their favorite horses and pose for the camera with their cowboy hats. El–Dog directs them with tasks whenever they come by, from keeping the fire going to feeding the cats. They comply immediately without complaint, happy to help wherever they can with the knowledge they’ll get to ride later on, giggling as they play with the many animals living on the property. Girls learn too, including El–Dog’s granddaughter and her friends, who are growing up in a new era where cowgirls also roam the streets of Philadelphia. “I try to get
the females interested in equine because they don’t know that there’s a lot of money in racing,” he says about a sport that’s still largely dominated by wealthier white women and girls.
When asked about what he wants for the future of the club, El–Dog’s eyes shine. “I just want a lot of people to come, a lot of kids to come and learn. That’s all we wanna do,” he shares. Their future is still uncertain, as the Susquehanna Housing Development that took over their original grazing lot significantly cut down their space and the hopes of their stables in Fairmount Park being finished begin to dissipate
as the months go by. But the incredible work the club does for the North Philly community still powers on, with a full house of children coming to the stables on even the coldest of days and even more coming in during the warmer months.
Nas, El–Dog’s daughter–in–law, rounds up the children for a photo. They surround El–Dog, grinning from ear to ear with cowboy hats on their heads and animals between their legs. The love they have for each other and their animals exudes from them as they stand together, chickens clucking in the background. Q
FINDING SPACE FOR YOURSELF AT X THE ROOM SHOP
Shelly Horst’s Philadelphia–based small business prioritizes community, sustainability, and a spirit of individuality.
BY FIONA HERZOG
Photos courtesy of The Room Shop
astel organza in pink, green, and cream drapes elegantly, encasing satin roses within airy bags and oversized scrunchies. Sunlight filters through the sheer fabric, casting soft, diffused glows that dance across the space. Room Shop’s accessories—ruffled chokers and garters, multicolored scrunchies adorned with whimsical charms like shrimp, stars, and crystals—are displayed against the industrial backdrop of a refurbished school. Concrete walls and oversized windows provide a striking contrast to the dreamy atmosphere, where golden light reflects off the satin textures, illuminating vintage home decor: funky figurines, ceramic vases, and personal treasures. Each piece speaks to an ethos of creating a world tailored to you and your personality by refashioning existing materials.
Shelly Horst’s Room Shop operates out of Bok, a repur-
posed school in South Philadelphia that has become a hub for glassblowers reshaping recycled glass, artisans making garlic za’atar and jalapeno–paprika flavored cashew cheese, and many other creatives. The former classrooms and locker–lined hallways now serve as creative studios, blending history with modern entrepreneurship. For Horst, the location is more than just a workspace; it’s a symbol of reinvention and sustainability, values that are deeply embedded in Room Shop’s ethos.
Room Shop first gained widespread attention in 2020 through social media. The brand’s visibility skyrocketed when a Teen Vogue editor featured a matching scrunchie–and–mask set, turning Horst’s designs into a sought–after staple for a time when even a small pop of color could bring a sense of joy through the Zoom workplace.
What started as an unexpected boom, however, has evolved into a more complex challenge: competing against the relentless fast–fashion industry. “We see fast–fashion companies mimicking designs from small brands, and they can do it faster and cheaper because they don’t have the same ethical con straints,” Horst explains. Unlike mass retailers reliant on disposable trends and exploitative labor, Room Shop remains committed to small–batch production in Philadelphia, ethical manufacturing, and quality materials. “It’s hard to keep up when the industry is built to favor overproduction and waste,” she says. Marketing a small business presents its own difficulties. Consumers are constantly bombarded with cheaper, more accessible alternatives, making it essential for Room Shop to stand out not just through its products, but through its story. “It’s not just about making something pretty; the products mean something,” Horst emphasizes. By embedding her identity and values into Room Shop, she ensures that customers aren’t just purchasing an accessory—they’re investing in a commitment to thoughtful design. Those who align with the brand’s vision choose to support a business model that prioritizes artistry and sustainability over mass production.
To Horst, fashion isn’t just aesthetic—it’s political. “What we wear is a reflection of who we are, what we care about, and how we want to move through the world,” she says. “Fast fashion strips that away—it takes identity and turns it into a disposable commodity.” By creating pieces meant to be cherished and worn for years, Room Shop challenges the throwaway culture of mainstream fashion. “I want people to feel like they’re wearing something that speaks to them, not just something they bought because it was trending for five minutes.”
Owning a small business is inherently political. “The way we run our business, the decisions we make—they all have impact,” Horst explains. “I think people don’t always realize that when you support a small brand, you’re making a political choice. You’re saying, ‘I value ethical production. I value craftsmanship. I
uncertainty. The central rose, sewn from carefully folded fabric, minimizes waste, ensuring that even the smallest fabric scraps are repurposed into something beautiful.
The award ribbons are large and colorful, adorned with lace and rosette trim and crafted from satin—a fabric that lends an air of sophistication suited for an adult, while the playful design itself feels lovingly childish, evoking a sense of nostalgia and joy. In a time when so much feels heavy, wearing something loud and joyful becomes an act of quiet defiance—a way to reclaim a bit of happiness.
“It’s this idea of a pin you can wear, something that acknowledges an achievement, even if it’s just making it through a hard day,” she says.
value independent creators.’”
Navigating sustainability while maintaining creative fulfillment is an ongoing challenge, but for Horst, it’s a welcome one. “The creative process isn’t just about making something beautiful; it’s about problem solving,” she says. “How do we make something ethically, but also in a way that feels fresh and exciting?” She views these constraints as an integral part of the design process, pushing her to innovate with materials, techniques, and production methods. “It forces you to be more intentional,” she explains. “Every piece we create has to earn its place—not just aesthetically, but in terms of how it’s made and why it exists.”
Room Shop’s commitment to intentionality is woven into its latest collections, such as its award ribbons—wearable tokens of appreciation meant to be gifted or kept as reminders of small victories in times of political strife and
Sustainability is central to Room Shop’s identity, though Horst is candid about the complexities of that label. “There’s no such thing as true sustainability when you’re producing new products,” she acknowledges. “But we can be responsible. We can make things that last, that people will keep instead of discarding.” From using deadstock and remnant fabrics to minimizing waste by repurposing fabric scraps from purses into cute lipstick holders, every aspect of production is approached with care. Every purchase from a small business is an act of support—not only for an individual creator but for the values they uphold. When customers choose Room Shop, they’re choosing slow fashion over fast trends, artistry over mass production, and a business that aligns with them. In this way, fashion becomes more than just adornment; it becomes a statement, a connection, and a reflection of the world we want to build.
For Horst, Room Shop is about self–expression—finding beauty and being creative in the everyday, even as the world seems to push against it. In a world that often prioritizes mass production and fleeting novelty, her designs stand as a testament to the power of thoughtful craftsmanship. “Being hopeful, finding joy—those are acts of resistance,” she says. “That’s what I want to bring to our customers. That’s what creation brings to me.” X
PHILLY'S BEST SHOPPING SPOTS, ACCORDING TO PEOPLE WITH GOOD TASTE
orget the big–box stores and cookie–cutter chains: Philly’s shopping gems are for those with a little grit and a lot of personality. For too long, this city has been treated like New York’s scrappier little sister or Los Angeles’ moody East Coast cousin, but anyone paying attention knows Philly has always had an edge. It’s found in the thrifted leather jackets on South Street, the minimalist–chic boutiques in Old City, the streetwear hubs in Fishtown, and the avant–garde designers quietly building cult followings. Philly style is less about chasing trends and more about confidence—pulling off the unexpected, mixing grit with glamour, and never trying too hard. So, if you’re looking for places that get that, start here: a roundup of the best spots proving that Philly is, and always has been, fashion–forward in its own way.
RICHMOND STREET FLEA AND BIG TOP VINTAGE
The best thrift stores exist outside of University City, West Philly, and Center City—they’re often not in stores at all. To some, the idea of taking SEPTA beyond Girard Avenue is absurd. But for those of us with a bargain–hunting addiction and an individuality complex, venturing beyond the usual spots is a thrill. The Richmond Street Flea, on—you guessed it—Richmond Street in Port Richmond,
eis a monthly flea market that is a treasure trove of unique clothes and tchotchkes from small businesses. I miss home a lot—the vast array of flea markets (hi, Silverlake Flea) and Goodwill bins—but something I can’t get in Los Angeles is the intimate collection of vintage stores owned by local Philadelphians. Beloved storefronts in Port Richmond, like Big Top Vintage and Launderette Records, bring their goods outside during the flea, alongside traveling vendors. Richmond has some of the best finds—one time, I scored the perfect pair of jorts and stumbled upon Justice’s self–titled album, sitting right next to the Trainspotting soundtrack and Richard D. James album—all without having to battle a 5–foot–7 Echo Park bro with patchwork tattoos, like I would in Los Angeles. And at actual reasonable prices.
—Hannah
Sung,
Digital Managing Editor
PHILLY AIDS THRIFT
Tucked away just off of South Street is the electric collection of vintage Eagles merch, collectors’ VHS tapes, prom dresses, and all the bizarre little trinkets your heart could desire. A Philly staple, this nonprofit thrives on donations and volunteers, with all proceeds supporting local HIV/AIDS organizations. With the store’s dedication to all things zany, wacky, and weird, entering the two–story
A love letter to Philly's shopping scene.
BY 34TH STREET MAGAZINE
Photos by Anish
Garimidi
and Maddy Israel
Design by Nishanth Bhargava
building feels akin to walking into Philly’s own wonderland. Curated collections of paintings, denim jackets, and any kind of tangible media make it easy to find that perfect piece you’re looking for (plus, there’s a new kitchen section in a room that, you guessed it, looks like a kitchen). For the dedicated thrifter, a whole day can be spent digging for gold in the dollar bins—bootcut Levi’s jeans, graphic baby tees, victorian–inspired peacoats: You name it, and it’s in those bins.
—Jules Lingenfelter, Print Managing Editor
CLARK PARK FLEA MARKET
Clark Park in West Philly is a must–visit for those who love treasure hunting for unique fashion finds. Every weekend, the park transforms into a vibrant marketplace filled with vintage resellers, local creatives, and West Philly residents clearing out their closets. I’ve found Arctic fleeces for just $5, delicately embroidered vintage Victoria’s Secret tops for $8, and intricately engraved pendant necklaces for $10. The variety and affordability is unbeatable. Nearly all compliments I get on campus for my wardrobe are sourced from the varying vendors of Clark Park.
But the shopping doesn’t stop at secondhand gems—Clark Park also features vendors selling beautiful handmade goods, from West African jewelry to modern–day, chunky Sanrio charm necklaces. And if fresh food is more your style, you’re in luck. The park is also home to an abundance of fresh produce, along with crusty artisan bread, and, in the fall, you can watch apple cider donuts emerge plump and fresh–to–order from a long line of other hungry customers.
My perfect Saturday morning begins with an everything rye bagel with smoked whitefish salad from Bart’s Bagels, then a stroll through the market to support local vendors while discovering one–of–a–kind pieces. Whether you’re into thrifting, handmade accessories, or seasonal treats, Clark Park is the place to be.
—Fiona Herzog, Assignments Editor
RETROSPECT VINTAGE
While there are only so many vintage and thrift stores one magazine can recommend before their audience revolts in search of something shiny and new, I remain utterly convinced that Retrospect Vintage deserves to be on every Penn student’s bucket list. Best
explored with an open mind and a curious friend by your side, this veritable institution of South Street has everything from crates of vintage sex manuals to ‘80s prom dresses. The store is organized by color and only vaguely curated, making it genuinely rewarding to stumble on that perfect piece. It’s even pretty reasonably priced, with most of the excellent shoe collection priced around $35, a $15 tank section, and a 50% discount on anything older than a month. With a constantly changing inventory and an Etsy storefront, it’s also impossible to get bored of Retrospect’s lineup. If I somehow still haven’t convinced you to drop by, it’s worth adding that store profits go to support Goodwills throughout southern New Jersey and Philadelphia. Could your hard–earned cash be going to a better (and more entertaining) institution? I think not!
—Catherine Sorrentino, senior staff writer and former Print Managing Editor
THE SECOND MILE CENTER
The best thrift stores are stumbled upon serendipitously. Settled between an Argentine bakery and around the corner from Green Line Cafe, the Second Mile Center begs to be found by wayward wanderers. Within walking distance of Penn’s campus, I’d argue Second Mile Center is the best thrift spot in West Philly—not for an abundance of niche clothes that will impress even the coolest of campus, but rather for its persistent charm. The staff of Second Mile Center kindly remind you of their Friday student discounts and peer down at you from their slightly elevated cash register with warm smiles. Most who enter the shop will spend at least an hour perusing racks of abandoned Hey Day shirts and flannel button downs in search of treasure. On the best of days at Second Mile Center,
I’ve plucked from the racks a sleek vintage pinstripe suit, black and red polka dot mini shorts, and a pleated denim skirt. Beyond clothing, the store boasts a wide selection of kitchen and homeware alongside a collection of furniture that I’d snap up in an instant if I were furnishing a West Philly home. Though I can’t promise that you’ll strike gold on every visit, the prices are always reasonable and the pieces are of increasingly rare quality to find when thrifting. My expert recommendation is to make an afternoon or a morning out of your trip to Second Mile Center, fuel up with artisan baked goods next door at Jezabel’s, and later venture into the shop with an open heart and a discerning eye. After all, the best things are worth searching for.
—Natalia Castillo, former Editor–in–Chief
BOYDS
Boyds is where you go to experience (and maybe cry over) the kind of fashion that rarely makes it past New York or Tokyo. Yes, it’s pricey—but if you’re going to splurge, at least do it somewhere that gets style. Case in point: a powder blue Moncler puffer so beautiful it stopped me in my tracks, the first of its kind I’ve ever seen in the wild. Or the upcoming Oscar de la Renta trunk show in March, which frankly makes me foam at the mouth. This family–owned institution has been dressing Philly’s best dressed for decades, offering the kind of old–school luxury that comes with actual service—like in–house tailors who can make even the most stubborn dress pants short–girl friendly. But even if you’re just window shopping, there’s something deeply joyful about wandering through racks of Brunello Cucinelli and vintage Balmain (back when it was still chic), letting yourself dream a little.
—Kate Cho, Style Editor e
RACHEL TASHJIAN
Redefining the role of a fashion critic through the sartorial art of politics and couture.
BY EVA LITITSKAIA AND ANISSA T. LY
B ON STYLE
ome aspirations are rooted in the artifacts of our childhood: lifelong interests, passions, and career ambitions. Do you recall dreaming of becoming an astronaut but later turning to finance? Or perhaps you were certain you would become a doctor and are currently working towards achieving your childhood dreams? If your answer is the latter, you are not alone: Rachel Tashjian (C ‘11), a New York–based fashion critic and journalist, is one of those individuals who turned her early passions into a thriving career.
Her grandmothers’ looks were her first fashion inspirations. They were “not necessarily extravagant, just always elegant,” she says. These women shaped Tashjian’s interest. Simultaneously, her father, who enjoyed shopping, would often take the future fashion critic and her brother to buy new clothes. Tashjian grew up trading clothes with her brother, borrowing vintage pieces from her parents, and experimenting with outfit combina -
Photo courtesy of Marvin Joseph / The Washington Post
Design by Erin Ma
TASHJIAN
STATECRAFT STYLE ANDS
tions—early experiences that would later shape her relationship with fashion.
When Tashjian graduated from Penn with a degree in English and art history, many people were disillusioned with traditional fashion magazines and began turning to blogs. It was hard for Vogue and other titans of fashion journalism to continue encouraging people to buy $10,000 coats and $5,000 handbags, so passionate fashionable youth turned to the new format—and Tashjian was one among them. Her fashion blog emerged and received attention from various magazine outlets. Editors started contacting her to write for their publications, although she had been rejected from their internships not so long ago. This was a starting point of Tashjian’s big career in journalism, while she continued to develop her own independent media.
Tashjian directed her attention to the often overlooked sphere of fashion in politics. The idea to pursue
journalism had already been rooted in Tashjian’s mind since college, though at the time, she envisioned a different path within the field—one that might lead her to become a political or foreign correspondent. For Tashjian, the meaning of visual presentation unites her interests in fashion and politics.
“Politics is a kind of presentation too; even if politicians are wearing the same thing every day, they are thinking about it as much as people who wear different clothes every day,” she says. She recalls Laura Bush on the cover of Vogue wearing Oscar de la Renta, and George W. Bush who chose to be captured playing golf during important press conferences. In these cases, “clothing helped the story of how politics is done.”
When Tashjian moved on to being published in major outlets, she continued to explore this theme. She has become an expert in the find, listing politicians with bold personal styles such as President of Mexico Claudia Sheinbaum, First Lady of France Brigitte
Macron, and Supreme Leader of North Korea Kim Jong Un. Tashjian is quick to explain what makes these political figures’ styles so distinct. Sheinbaum often pairs indigenous Mexican prints and textiles with more standard business casual clothing to craft her image. As Tashjian notes, it is interesting to see the first female president of Mexico wearing really expressive colors to narrate her connection to the people who have voted her into office. In this sense, Macron is also pursuing national ideals through her style. “In France, there is this idea of fashion as being as important and almost as nationalist as the concept of champagne and cheese,” Tashjian says. By borrowing a lot of clothing from Louis Vuitton, France’s first lady is representing and showcasing the innovative fashion of the country she is serving. Compared to the United States, where such an approach would be widely criticized, France is one of the few places where these kinds of fashion choices are embraced, representing the country’s
deep appreciation for style as a form of national representation. On the other hand, Kim’s preservationist uniform, characterized by its severity and specificity, exposes the gap in social values between cut–off North Korea and the rest of the world. “Uniform means something totally different and more serious there than it might in other places,” says Tashjian.
Tashjian’s role extends beyond analyzing political fashion aesthetics: She also frequents fashion weeks and covers international runways through journalism. Tashjian fondly recalls the first Chanel couture show she attended back in 2018. She compares that event to Coachella with Chanel’s top clients being decked out in their limited edition items: “Everyone is so
their publicists and discussing what other people in the industry are paying attention to. Still, the devil is in the details of the everyday routine of fashion week.
When knee–deep in the chaos of a day during big fashion events, Tashjian gets up at 6 a.m. to write for two or so hours and then dedicates one hour to getting dressed, relaxing, and reflecting on what she has just written. She prefers not to wear recognizable labels and pieces in order to maintain her objectivity as a critic. Instead, she opts for personal style, comfort, and minimalism. When arriving at the airport along with other critics and journalists, packing a navy and black capsule wardrobe allows Tashjian to minimize her luggage, while the others might
sometimes gets feedback from readers upset about something she has written, who try to criticize her outfits to justify their complaints. “Women are really pressured to look a certain way and especially to attune themselves or to modify themselves for particular environments.” She feels that it is important to maintain her personal style against the expectation to prove qualification through conformity.
happy to be there. No one is stressed; very often a fashion show is a stressful environment.” She still thinks about 18th–century–styled dresses with hand–painted resin flowers that she saw on the models. “It was a completely different level of clothing than I had imagined would be possible,” Tashjian says.
Since 2018, Tashjian has frequented numerous events, each sparking as much delight as her first memorable Chanel couture show. However, she has since adopted a more discerning approach, carefully selecting the occasions she attends. “I find it is better for my writing and reporting if I can do a research or reconnaissance beforehand and figure out what the newsworthy shows are going to be,” she says. Tashjian consults the brand presenting before coming to fashion weeks, talking with designers and
land with four enormous suitcases for two weeks. For runway shows, Tashjian only brings a notebook to jot down notes during the day and a book to read so that she “can not think about fashion for 40 minutes” during lunch. In the evening, she comes back to the hotel and continues to work on her pieces.
With professionalism comes a formality; while some may see it as a detriment to personal style, Tashjian opposes this dogma. “When I started my job at The Washington Post, I really felt that I did not want to de–fashion what I was wearing,” she says. Tashjian explains that her closet is made up of “interesting and strange avant–garde” pieces. The outside world may find eccentric, but in the fashion world, it is not only not uncommon but rather welcomed.
While confident in her approach, she
Embracing intersections of fashion, politics, and identity, Tashjian brings a fresh lens to fashion journalism. In a field often saturated with predictable, standard narratives, her critique remains buoyant amidst a sea of conformity as the role of fashion journalism evolves. When lacking individuality and a distinct voice, fashion journalism risks becoming a mere echo chamber, devoid of meaningful insights or thought provoking analysis. Fostering a dynamic discourse that pushes beyond surface–level aesthetics is now more important than ever. More than fabric and trends, fashion reflects society, personal, and political expression. Tashjian’s work exemplifies this understanding, as she navigates the intersection of fashion and deeper societal phenomena, ensuring her critiques can rise above the industry’s clichéd superficiality. B
THE D PAPER DOLL THEORY
BY JACKSON FORD
X
wo institutions, alike in price tags yet worlds apart in collectible Cartier.
As we waited for D.C. Fashion Week to begin, Street Style Editor Kate Cho and I killed three hours on the Georgetown University lawn, watching students pass in a blur of Sambas and overdone Hoyas merch. No Monclers. No Golden Gooses. No Van Cleefs—not even a single holiday pendant.
It struck me: Why does Penn wear its
privilege so loudly, while Georgetown keeps it as a whisper? Why did it suddenly feel unnatural to be in a crowd where wealth wasn’t being signaled through tastefully distressed leather shoes and gold clovers?
I’d always considered myself a nonconformist, yet somehow, I had internalized the social contract of Locust Walk. I told myself the Ralph Lauren flag sweater and the Brunello Cucinelli crewneck were just
clothes, but they weren’t: They were social cues, a quiet reassurance that I belonged.
Even the nonconformists conform, just with slightly different props. A large Balenciaga city bag instead of a Goyard. A Cartier Juste un Clou bracelet instead of a Van Cleef Alhambra. It’s rebellion with a dress code, a rejection of the mold that somehow still fits neatly within it.
This photo essay isn’t about clothes. It’s about what they mean.
Photos by Jackson Ford and Scribbles by Insia Haque
THE ENGINEER
THE ARTSY PERSON
THE "HUMANITIES PROFFESSOR"
"HUMANITIES PROFFESSOR"
THE ATHLETE THE PARTY PERSON
THE REAL INFERNO IS IN THE BEAUTY F STANDARDS F
Single’s Inferno, K–beauty, and the consequences of the pursuit of exclusive beauty
BY KATE HIEWON AHN
Graphic by Insia Haque and Design by Vivian Yao
ingle’s Inferno, South Korea’s most recent and most popular reality dating show, finished its fourth season in February. Riffing off the genre’s more typical competition tropes—lots of abs, drama, and love triangles—the show frames the contestants’ search for love as a means of escape from the “Inferno,” a deserted island and a “singles’ hell.” Find a contestant you click with, choose each other, and you’re allowed to escape for the evening to “Paradise,” hotel suites complete with everything that’s supposed to help
you fall in love: deluxe beds, room–service dinner, and an outdoor pool. You get the idea. Given the show’s popularity, each season is typically accompanied by waves of fanfare and speculation online, Season Four included. This much is standard. What isn’t standard, however, is a notable amount of criticism targeted at the cast; specifically, toward their appearance. “When I look at their faces this time, something about it is just not … right. It’s not of this Earth,” one TikTok comments. Other commentary online often reflects this
take, pointing out that the contestants, although attractive, look the same, while others even call their appearances “uncanny.”
Maybe these kinds of criticisms can be written off as shoddy production—some online wonder whether the show has changed casting directors or that the novelty of the Inferno–Paradise universe has worn off. Or maybe, it’s something more: a microcosm of the effects of the complex, contradictory world of Korean beauty standards.
This isn’t new: Many articles and commu-
nity pages are already devoted to the high and unachievable beauty standards in Korea. From the abundance of plastic surgery clinics to hyperspecific skincare routines and the obsession with being “milky white, smooth, glowing,” the global fascination with K–beauty and K–pop is rooted in an industry that thrives on an obsession with good looks. But maybe, it’s only now that we’re really seeing its effects.
In the first episode of Season Four of Single’s Inferno, contestant Bae Ji–yeon is the only one left at Inferno while the other contestants that were successfully matched with one another spend the night at Paradise. Attractive and slender, she, like the other contestants, fits conventional Korean beauty standards—except for her tan. Almost immediately, speculation spread online about colorism among the contestants. “The guys aren’t interest[ed] because of her skin and y’all know what I mean,” one TikTok points out, claiming that the “same thing happened” to another con testant in Season Two (where, incidentally, a male contestant came under fire for declaring that he liked girls with white skin).
Regardless of whether this is true, it reflects the consequences of one of the largest “pil lars” of Korean beauty: the obsession with being pale. In her book Ugliness, Afghan–German writer and artist Moshtari Hilal argues that our ideas about human beauty are never personal, but rather determined by forces like war, power hierarchies, or economics. The same can be applied for colorism in Korea, which is often linked to Korea’s feudal past. Archaeological evidence from as far back as the Goryeo period shows that pale skin was associated with high class; the popular folk tale Chunhyangjeon shows the love interest Mongryong whitening his face with makeup to appear more attractive. This tradition has continued. Today, K–beauty churns out dozens of microtrends which often smack of colorism—the emphasis on shiny glass skin akin to “kkandalgyal” (“boiled egg”), for instance—just in different names. This also leads to the thorny debate surrounding makeup’s infamously limited shade range: In the subreddit r/MakeupAddic-
tion, one user complains about the lack of accurate foundation shades in East Asian beauty brands. “Even with SPF everyday (which I use to prevent acne scarring not to lighten my skin) I cannot even use the darkest shade for many East Asian complexion products, and have never successfully found an Asian beauty blush that was not ashy.”
This is only one example, but the list could go on—from the perennial desire for double eyelids, to the obsession over weight, to the lack of inclusivity in clothing. If Single’s Inferno reveals anything about the pursuit of what Hilal calls “exclusive beauty,” it’s the cost of prioritizing desirability over individuality. Among the critiques of Season Four, a growing amount of online discourse is centered around the opinion that the contestants are,
days,” she tells me, a little amused. It’s not just clothes, but also haircuts, makeup, and even mannerisms. There seems to be an unspoken, ideal standard for desirability, and everyone is in on it. People are attractive, trendy, and stylish, but not always unique.
Single’s Inferno, a program whose purpose it is to solicit interest by encouraging romance among attractive and desirable people, reveals the core of this tension. Every contestant is picked for their appeal to not just each other but also to larger audiences in Korea and beyond. But when the same audiences are arguing that they no longer find these contestants “interesting,” it brings into question whether we sacrifice individuality in the pursuit of appearing “attractive” as it is defined by standards as strict as that of Korean beauty. And, ultimately, is it worth it?
well, uninteresting. “At least have interesting people or maybe even one handsome man,” one TikTok argues, calling for the show to stop being produced altogether. “Why was the most interesting person on the show an accountant?” In another, a user comments that the reason why panelists don’t have much to say about each contestant in the latest season is because they all have the same mannerisms: “There’s nothing to compare or contrast or say different about any of them.”
When I visited Korea for the first time in six years, what struck me most wasn’t the usual struggle of not feeling “Korean enough”—it was the ironclad uniformity of beauty standards. The influence of social media microtrends and algorithms aside—because that’s an entire discussion on its own—my mother even comments how obvious it is to see what the standard is by just walking down the street. “It’s so clear what young people like these
Alexa Chung notes that good style is a byproduct of good personality, and I think the same resonates when we talk about beauty. Not in the trite, “beauty–radiates–from–within” sense of an inspirational quote, but more so in the sense of what we call “매력” (“maeryeok”) in Korean. Its English equivalent could be translated as “charm,” but its real definition is more akin to “the power an individual possesses to pull in others.” One look at models like Sora Choi or Yoon Young Bae—both undeniably beautiful and embodying this power to pull in others—and it’s clear just how arbitrary and senseless it is to limit one’s perceptions to an exclusive set of rules. Perhaps if we place less emphasis in beauty and attractiveness on arbitrary standards and more emphasis on the unique patchwork of all that makes us interesting— the features we inherit, the people we love, the art and music we consume—that “pulls people in,” we can rethink how we define beauty in a more sustainable way. Maybe we won’t have to consider the pursuit of beauty as an either–or choice between desirability and individuality. After all, some kinds of infernos are not built on deserted islands: They run on tone–up serums and red light skin therapy. F
Take It
to
the Streets What to Do in Philly This Month
This month: Art galleries, exercise with goats, crafting with community, and half marathons
Going to college in Philly, we’re so often bombarded—both on social media and in real life—with seemingly endless options for how to spend our free time. So, I’m delighted to announce that Street has done the hard part for you: We’ve rounded up what we think are the can’t–miss events for the month in one convenient place. If I’ve done my job right, there’ll be something in here for every one of our readers, no matter what you like to do with your free time.
—Jules Lingenfelter, Print Managing Editor
documents from the abolitionist movement in the late 18th and 19th centuries. The exhibit works to dispel myths surrounding the abolition of slavery and focus on the Black people who fought hard against systems of oppression. The special exhibit commemorates the 250th anniversary of the founding of the Pennsylvania Abolition Society.
Free, 1300 Locust St.
Nov. 16, 2024–Aug. 31: The Ecology of Fashion at The Academy of Natural Sciences of Drexel University
Exploring the intersection between flora, fauna, and high fashion, this exhibit at Drexel’s Academy of Natural Sciences highlights how luxury brands rely on unethical labor practices and environmental degradation to market their products. After viewing different art exhibits, you can participate in various workshops that highlight new forms of sustainable fashion and learn how to remain stylish while reducing your fashion footprint.
$27, 1900 Benjamin Franklin Pkwy.
Feb. 27–April 26: A Midsummer Night's Dream at The Sedgwick Theater
Jan. 25–March 15: Fantasy’s
Spell: The Art of Enchantment at The Galleries at Moore College of Art and Design
Get ready to enter a magical world without boundaries—welcome to Fantasy’s Spell. A curation of physical–, digital–, and motion–based media, this art exhibit features fantastical landscapes, magical creatures, and themes of destiny and fate. Immerse yourself in a world of artistic enchantment and take a trip to The
Galleries at Moore College. Free, 1916 Race St.
Feb. 6–May 23: Free, As One: Black Worldmaking in the Pennsylvania Abolition Society Papers at the Historical Society of Pennsylvania
Hosted at the Historical Society of Philadelphia, this Black history art exhibit highlights “Black self–determination and leadership” and features historical
All throughout the month, The Sedgwick Theater offers up a show filled with rebellious Athenian youths, lovelorn lovers, and ethereal fairy kingdoms. While A Midsummer Night’s Dream has a storied history of performances, no past staging is quite like this one. The Quintessence Theatre Group’s rendition of Shakespeare’s classic play will transport you into a world of whimsy, allowing you to escape the humdrum of everyday life.
$30, 7137 Germantown Ave.
Feb. 27–March 30: August Wilson’s King Hedley II at Arden Theatre Company
Situated a few minutes away from Second Street Station in Old City, the Arden Theatre Company is the perfect place to weather out the indecisiveness of March
temperatures in Philly. King Hedley II , the ninth part of August Wilson’s ten–part series The Pittsburgh Cycle , is the company’s latest offering and will be performed until March 30. A dark imagining of a man trying to rebuild his life by selling refrigerators, the play depicts 1980s Pittsburgh through the direction of Pulitzer Prize–winning playwright James Ijames.
Tickets start at $32, 40 N. Second St.
Sundays, March 8–29: A Deeply Rooted Trolley Tour at Harriett’s Bookshop
An annual hop–on, hop–off trolley tour, A Deeply Rooted Trolley Tour travels through the city of Philadelphia and its rich history, all while supporting local businesses owned by Black women. Enjoy the food, music, and culture the city has to offer, both above and below ground. This year, the tour is celebrating renowned Philly poet Sonia Sanchez and visitors will receive a copy of her book Homegirls & Handgrenades .
$50, 258 E. Girard Ave.
March 9: Paint and sip at Nutmeg Bar and Market
Whether you’re an expert artist or still working you way up through the paint by numbers, you’re welcome at this night of art and sophistication at Nutmeg on East Passyunk Avenue. Sip on mocktails and graze on snack plates while you work. Stenciled canvases for those with less experience are always an option!
$30, 4 p.m., 1835 E. Passyunk Ave.
March 9 and 15: Goat hiking at Wissahickon Valley Park
Offering a reprieve from the hustle and bustle of campus, the Rose Bridge Farm and Sanctuary allows you to reconnect with nature in the presence of adorable rescue goats. Take a stroll through the Wissahickon Valley Park, spend time with your friends, and bask in the sun as you reestablish your relationship with the world around you.
$25, 9 a.m., 990 W. Northwestern Ave.
Sundays, March 15–29: Wheel workshops at Black Hound Clay Studio West
Always suspected you would have made a great potter in another life? One–day clay workshops are welcome to pottery aficionados of all levels. All materials, as well as lessons in artistry for beginners, are provided. Just bring yourself and your best clay–inspired ideas. If you can imagine it, you might just be able to make it in clay (with some help from the experts at Black Hound, of course).
$72, 715 S. 50th St.
March 16: Philadelphia St. Patrick’s Day Parade at Benjamin Franklin Parkway
Celebrate St. Patty’s Day with a citywide parade beginning at North 16th Street and John F. Kennedy Boulevard. A Philly tradition since 1771, the parade will have a theme of blessing those dedicated to serving others and honoring Irish traditions. Skip going to the pub and instead immerse yourself in a celebration of Irish culture on March 16.
Free, 11 a.m., North 16th Street and John F. Kennedy Boulevard
March 22: Weatherday at PhilaMOCA
Sputnik, the artist behind Weatherday, is mostly an enigma—but their music speaks for itself, full of fuzz, electronic noise, and lo–fi emo vocals. Joined by Combat, The Civil War in France, and Boo Boo Spoiler, Weatherday brings their multi–instrumental talents to Philadelphia this March. Headlined by some of the hottest names in noise pop and hard rock, this show isn’t one to miss.
$20, 7:30 p.m., 531 N. 12th St.
March 23: Junk Journal Club at Brush Factory Lofts
Hosted by Let Me Know Club, this is the perfect opportunity to make good use of all the receipts and candy wrappers littering your desk. Adorn your journal with rhinestones, stickers, and more
from the communal craft supply table and bond over arranging junk in artful ways. Find your community via crafting. $20, 12 p.m., 1201 Jackson St.
March 24–April 27: Peeps in the Village at Peddler’s Village
Live out your childhood fantasy and visit Peddler’s Village’s Peeps in the Village competition in Bucks County. The contest will feature an assortment of marshmallow masterpieces including candy dioramas, wall art, and sculptures. After the competition, you and your friends can also get in some retail therapy and browse the village’s more than 70 boutiques and restaurants.
Free, 100 Peddlers Village, Lahaska, Pa.
March 28: Sweet Revenge: Emo Pop Girlies Dance Party at World Cafe Live
Looking for your next party? Look no farther than right before the bridge to Center City. World Cafe Live is hosting Sweet Revenge: Emo Pop Girlies Dance Party. For those who are sick of Taylor Swift and cheap vodka or never seem to know a brother, skip frat row and venture just a little bit off campus. Scream your heart out to all those classic edgy songs and relive your middle school emo phase for just one night. 21+, $15 advance, $20 at the door, 3025 Walnut St.
March 30: The Love Run at the Philadelphia Museum of Art Ready, set, run! Just kidding, unless you really want to … Registration is still open for the Love Run, but if you’re one of the many people who buy $150 running shoes for style rather than function, standing on the sidelines and cheering on participants may be more your style. Make a poster, bring a friend, and cheer for someone you love or cheer for a stranger. There’s no wrong way to be a part of this race.
$149 to run, free to watch, 2451 Benjamin Franklin Pkwy.
What’s Street Bumping?
FKA twigs is the Voice of a Detached, Uninspired Generation in EUSEXUA
BY JO KELLY
FKA twigs distinguishes herself from other, dare I say neoromantic, strains of art that yearn for an unattainable glamour. She does this by aligning explicitly with the rave scene and a culture of postmodern British experimentalism. The marriage of avant–garde aesthetics and this longing for something deeper is probably the most revolutionary aspect of EUSEXUA . By juxtaposing the introspective and the frivolous, FKA twigs creates an interesting duality, one that speaks directly to our generation’s angst.
IVE Got an Identity Crisis
BY DEREK WONG
IVE EMPATHY feels like a deliberate attempt to capitalize on nostalgia for past eras, both sonically and in terms of the group’s identity. Self–referential music can certainly be done well—take, for example, Lady Gaga’s “Abracadabra,” which in its own way recalls some of the famed pop star’s old sound and image. But it is far too early in IVE’s career for them to start reheating their own nachos. A group that debuted only three years ago does not need to pack a six–song EP with two sample–heavy tracks and one that calls back to their own song—not when they're capable of diversifying and reinventing themselves.
SZA Revisits Past Tracks with a New Outlook on SOS Deluxe: LANA
BY DANIELLE JASON
LANA , as a whole, sees SZA at her best: introspective lyrics and lush vocals coupled with production that matches the essence of each song. While the added songs were originally throwaways from the SOS era, they each have their own place within the album’s narrative and expose listeners to the less publicized parts of SZA’s mind, both as a musician and a human. Her newest additions to the album display the vulnerability fans are already familiar with but with an added depth.
What’s Street Watching?
Babygirl Actually Isn’t a Girlboss Fantasy
BY KATE CHO
Nicole Kidman’s Romy is not a poised, powerfully sensual woman in control. She is messy, desperate, aware of her decline, and reckless just to feel something. And that’s what makes Babygirl radical. It doesn’t sell older women’s desire as inherently sexy or empowering—sometimes, it’s ugly. Sometimes, it’s humiliating, selfish, and driven by loneliness rather than confidence. Hollywood loves older women with younger men—so long as they’re self assured, well adjusted, and still “acceptable.” But it resists women like Romy: unraveling, uncertain, and just barely holding herself together. This is why Babygirl feels radical—it doesn’t sanitize female desire. It doesn’t pretend that power and control are always clear–cut. And this is why Romy’s affair feels so different from Hollywood’s other attempts to “progressively” portray age–gap relationships. Babygirl understands that older women’s desire doesn’t always fit into the carefully curated feminist framework we want it to.
I’m
Still Here Explores When Personal Loss Becomes Political
BY LUIZA LOUBACK
I’m Still Here is a powerful portrayal of how governments can terrorize their own citizens for years, all while maintaining the illusion that nothing is amiss. Amid the deep–blue sea, the warm Rio de Janeiro sun, and the vibrant cars of the 1970s, a creeping terror seeps into everyday life. Fernanda Torres delivers a quietly devastating performance as a woman fighting for justice—and for the truth. The script also avoids the typical clichés of authoritarian regime narratives. There are no melodramatic simplifications; instead, Eunice’s story is handled with a rare sensitivity, acknowledging the deep emotional complexity of life under political repression. How does one cope with being denied the right to grieve? With Rubens’ disappearance and murder never officially acknowledged—no body, no funeral—the family has to fight for his death to be recognized. I’m Still Here responds emphatically to oppression: Survival in the face of dictatorship is essential.
The
Sex Lives of College Girls: Hundreds of Tiny Relationships Cannot Replace Reneé Rapp
BY BEA HAMMAM
In many ways, it feels as if the show is trying to be socially relevant without meaningfully engaging in new discourse, causing it to fall too often into tropes. Reneé Rapp’s relationship with her girlfriend had been the most consistent example of love and gave us a group to root for; it is hard to find nuanced queer representation that centers on joy. In a show with so few successful relationships, the loss of Leighton as a character is sorely felt. It’s not too late for The Sex Lives of College Girls to find “the one,” but the writers need to focus on developing the existing characters before they bring in new relationships. While the show is called The Sex Lives of College Girls, it could benefit from also exploring the nonromantic aspects of each character’s life. More than anything, I urge the writers to develop more consistency throughout the episodes.
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Crisis to Coalition:
How College Students and Professors are Fighting to Secure Reproductive Care
With the onset of a new Trump administration, student activists and educators are working to protect the future of choice.
BY KAYLEY KANG
Photos by Anna Vazhaeparambil
On June 24, 2022, a landmark United States Supreme Court ruling overturned what was once a symbol of the protection of private rights for many: Roe v. Wade. This 1973 case legalized abortion before the fetus was viable, making it a critical centerpiece of the reproductive rights movement.
Over two years later, on Jan. 24, newly sworn–in President Donald Trump (W ‘68) signed an executive order enforcing the Hyde Amendment, which would end the use of federal taxpayer dollars to fund and/or promote elective abortion. It rescinded former President Joe Biden’s Executive Order 14079, which had defined abortion as “healthcare,” drawing attention to the need to protect patient privacy and access to accurate information on reproductive rights while addressing disparities in reproductive healthcare. States will now have to work much harder to retain reproductive healthcare access, prompting drastic implications down the road as more and more seek out reproductive care under restricted policies.
A deeper look beyond just the realm of
policy reveals a clear and drastic shift in sentiment toward abortion or reproductive health and care at a broader level. Several platforms had previously warned of the implications of a second Trump term, and as the American Civil Liberties Union states, another Trump administration could result in the enforcement of the Comstock Act that would ban abortion in every state without exception.
And what exactly is the problem? As George A. Weiss University Professor of Law and Sociology Dorothy Roberts puts it, “pregnancy [makes] people vulnerable to government intervention that others would not experience.”
In one particular case decided in 1990, a forced Caesarean section was performed on a terminally ill woman, after which she passed away. An incident such as this could have been considered assault as a result of going through with the procedure without consent, and it exposes the fact that pregnancy makes individuals vulnerable to government intervention in private matters.
Issues like this are what sparked Roberts’ interest in reproductive rights and
justice advocacy. As an acclaimed author and professor at the University of Pennsylvania Carey Law School who is currently teaching a course on this very topic, she shares that she often discusses with her students the importance of the shifting political climate. “Just last week, I brought to their attention someone that Marco Rubio appointed in the administration, who has made blatantly eugenicist comments about sterilizing—incentivizing sterilization—of low IQ people,” she reflects. “Almost every class involves a discussion of the very meaning of rights.”
The challenges to reproductive rights and justice involve a much broader group, branching into intersections between race, class, and gender. An additional topic explored in Roberts’ course is that of parents providing gender–affirming care to their transgender children—another action being challenged by Trump. Reproductive justice doesn’t just deal with “the right to not have children, but also the right to have children and to parent them in a safe and supported community,” Roberts says.
University campuses have an important role when it comes to such advocacy work as the centers of political movements organized by passionate students— and even educators—learning to use their voice for what matters most to them.
Changes in reproductive health legislation have had a direct effect on educational institutions by undermining trust between students and administrations for fear of repercussions brought about by restrictive state control and impacting the college choice for many. 72% of currently enrolled students find the reproductive health laws in their college or university’s state to be of some level of significance, especially following the 2022 Dobbs v. Jackson decision that pivoted power in this matter back to the states.
Here on campus, Penn Reproductive Justice—a group made up of educators, activists, and students—has expanded access to abortion, contraceptives, and education centered around inclusivity when it comes to reproductive health. These are all essential to the needs of the student community, especially for those
who may face barriers to these products and services. Challenges surrounding privacy, stigmatization, and cost contin -
”There’s more stigma around having sex and being on birth control and having an abortion, especially when you’re at a younger age … [so] it’s important to be aware of and talk about reproductive health and access.”
ue to limit access to reproductive health resources for many. “A lot of it has to do with insurance, which is notoriously difficult and hard to handle. … If you buy anything and you’re under your par -
ents’ insurance, then your parents will know. College kids often don’t have a lot of money,” says Delia Angulo Chen, an undergraduate student from Bryn Mawr College’s Feminist Coalition.
Brisa Kane, a student who helped found the Haverford Students for Reproductive Health organization, further emphasizes the unique role institutions of higher education play. “There’s more stigma around having sex and being on birth control and having an abortion, especially when you’re at a younger age … [so] it’s important to be aware of and talk about reproductive health and access,” she says, also highlighting the inherent responsibility that college and university institutions have to protect and care for their students, a mission to which the accessibility of resources is critical.
From training and recruiting for a peer mentorship program that provides reproductive care products for individuals on campus to loading dispensers and maintaining services that confidentially connect students to Plan B, student organizations are where reproductive rights advocacy thrive.
With novel developments in politics surrounding reproductive rights and justice, organizations are implementing changes that help to address these pressing concerns. They’re prioritizing product accessibility for students who live in red states, creating an archive of institutional memory in the event that such initiatives are ever challenged, and joining forces with others to spread awareness. As Kaia Susman—another student from Bryn Mawr helping to spearhead the campus’ Feminist Coalition—puts it, “Our goal and my goal is to make people feel empowered [to] make these choices for their body and provide them with all the resources that they need. … Let’s get the word out. Let’s let people know that we’re here.”
However, an important matter to consider is “whether rights should just be protection against government interference or whether it should also be an affirmative obligation of the government to provide the resources that are necessary to actually be free in this nation,” says Roberts. When we consider the fact that there is currently no
”Our goal and my goal is to make people feel empowered [to] make these choices for their body and provide them with all the resources that they need.”
requirement for the government to provide these resources, we start to tread difficult waters as we branch into questions of whether Medicaid should cover abortion if it can’t be afforded.
Despite these other concerns, Roberts drives home the message that solidarity is needed now more than ever. “Don’t give up hope,” she says. “We can look to the lesson[s] of history and how social movements and people working collectively have been able
to make our society better.” She encourages students to take it upon themselves to stay educated and aware, which includes taking courses related to reproductive health.
“There are people that want to take care of and create these support networks for each other in the wake of everything,” Brisa says, “so knowing and trusting in that and trying to get involved in those spaces is really important in this current moment.” She hopes that the work done at local and county levels will amount to something nationally significant. “Leaning on the organizations that are already existing is a way to make yourself feel like, ‘Okay, I’m contributing to something bigger, and it’s not all on me,’” Delia adds.
The fight isn’t over, and there will continue to be setbacks alongside successes. For approximately half of the nation’s population, this issue presents a unique dilemma that weaves between government intervention and rights to privacy. It’s an ongoing and overwhelming issue, but it all harks back to the college students making change, one care package at a time. k
How Do We Exhibit the Fear and Fragility of Our Moment?
After Modernism , the Arthur Ross Gallery’s first exhibition of 2025, brings the movement’s past into our present.
BY RICHARD PAGET
Photos by Richard Paget
Tucked behind the brick–and–terra–cotta Venetian entrance of the Fisher Fine Arts Library, the new exhibition After Modernism: Selections from the Neumann Family Collection is finally on view at the Arthur Ross Gallery and will remain on view through March 2.
An examination of contemporary art’s purpose and future trajectory, After Modernism captures a wide range of works stretching from the 20th century to the modern day. Upon entering, I am immediately dizzied by the vast menagerie of media—paintings of televisions, naked figures, and observational sketches of birds filling the large, blank walls. These are contrasted by a riddled elliptical tower placed front and center in the exhibition.
At first glance, the selection of these works seems arbitrary. However, the vision of curator Gwendolyn DuBois Shaw— faculty director of the Arthur Ross Gallery and acclaimed professor of American art history—becomes clear as I piece together the elements of her creative direction: the cognitive tensions that characterize our present moment.
After Modernism encompasses the
works of the modernist era. The Neumann Family Collection dates back to 1948 and includes over 3,000 artworks, and the exhibition draws from this vast collection to trace the evolution of modern art to the present day. What initially seemed like an overwhelming visual experience soon unfolded as a clear timeline of modern art history—a tradition of social critique—transitioning from the
iconic figures of Pablo Picasso and Henri Matisse to ultracontemporary artists like Allison Zuckerman and Patricia Renee' Thomas, whose works date as recently as 2022. The exhibition features a dynamic mix of street art, postmodernism, and conceptual art.
The exhibition investigates contemporary art’s ability to capture the present moment despite its permanent shifting
mobility. Shaw’s artistic vision reflects her research practice: the role of race, gender, sexuality, and class in the United States, Latin America, and the Caribbean. Her past exhibitions feature American, Polynesian, Cuban, and Brazilian artists drawing from both historical and contemporary perspectives. She also implements works that explore intangible ideas centered on personal, subjective experience.
Picasso’s Angry Owl (1953) pays homage to his experience rescuing and nursing an injured owl back to health while working in Antibes, France in 1946. This piece is part of a series of works in which Picasso depicts owls, a recurring symbol of both strength and vulnerability. The angry owl in question, fractured into fluid blobs marked by stark black contours, is narrowly balancing itself on its two spindly legs. The owl’s face, uncanny and humanlike, stares back with a craned neck and what appear to be strings of hair pooling at its chin. Its fragile, wavering form betrays a sense of impermanence, a quiet delicacy, as if teetering on the brink of collapse. The owl’s dissipation contends with its desire to remain grounded, a nod to modernism’s obsession with the transient.
Matthew Ronay’s Stacked Ellipsoid Cairn with Pearl (2015) is a basswood sculpture coated with gouache and shellac–based primer, giving it a textured, stain–blocked
finish. The surface appears to be punctured by countless tiny spokes, forming the pattern of a million peering eyeballs or small gateways opening into a nightmarish realm of writhing flesh. Atop the chaotic form rests a single, shiny pearl, its purity sharply contrasting with the vibrant red–and–green, almost grotesque, base. Ronay, who is red–green colorblind, chose these colors because, to him, they appear interchangeable. He notes that the pearl—a symbol of clarity amid instability—resembles a gateway to connection with the universe, a vision he experienced during one of his meditations. Though more carnal than the owl, this work grapples with a similar tension: tranquility in the wake of chaos.
Patricia Renee' Thomas’ Smart Shopper (2022) is a collage, combining spray paint, oil, and acrylic to depict a dark–skinned shopper draped in a cloak of sprawling leaves. The work is set in the Tops Friendly Markets grocery store in Buffalo, N.Y.—the site of a racially motivated mass shooting in 2022. The shooter, then–19–year–old white man Payton Gendron, pleaded
guilty to ten counts of first–degree murder and is now serving a life sentence without parole. Drenched in anxiety, the shopper peruses an aisle of the store, surrounded by grocery scraps—a shopping bag, old produce, and a receipt. By embodying hypervisibility and racial profiling, the artist reflects on the fear that has been inflicted by the growth of white nationalist terror, a magnification of America's still racist social underpinnings. A “wet floor” sign marks the slippery surface the shopper navigates to highlight her precarious circumstance. She’s forced to wear black paint to mask her identity, but the garish leaves stick out against the ashy background. Her camouflage captures the visceral experience of navigating life under threat.
Modernism as a movement has long been concerned with capturing the present moment. A critical exploration of modernism’s current state, including its versatility and sensory investigations into specific moments, After Modernism offers a glimpse into the fragmentation of experience. k
